


Merry Miracles

by Aelys_Althea



Series: When Worlds Collide [1]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: A little bit morbid but in a good way, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Banter, Christmas Eve, Christmas fic, Gen, General Sass, Implied Terminal Illness (not one of the MCs), M/M, Mentions of Drake, Older Characters, Practically devoid of Christmas vibes but whatever, Referenced Canonical Deaths, Referenced canon abuse, The iconic questions game, and I know I'm not local to Berlin, different first meeting, except it's not really very festive, if that's possible, set in Berlin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:41:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28282629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aelys_Althea/pseuds/Aelys_Althea
Summary: Neil had never been a festive person. That likely wouldn't change, even if he had someone to celebrate with. This year, however, there was certainly cause for celebration.Andrew wasn't a festive person either. He never had been and likely never would be. But when shared coincidences perfectly align, it was only expected that he make a few exceptions.Christmas had never been and would never be the same again.~A Christmas story that has very little to do with Christmas~
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard, Nicky Hemmick/Erik Klose
Series: When Worlds Collide [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2083545
Comments: 4
Kudos: 92





	1. Chapter 1

It was by chance that he saw it. Utterly by chance.

Striding down the half-frozen sidewalk, huddled beneath layers of scarves and coats, Nathaniel ground to a halt. His gaze downcast and head bowed, his thumb quivered as it hovered over his phone screen. It didn't shake with the cold.

_US Executes Fabled Butcher of Baltimore_

His breath puffed. It caught, stuck, then plumed in a washing gasp. Nathaniel's whole hand trembled as he scrolled through the article, skimming and hardly comprehending the words that all but screamed at him with their dramatised journalistic tone.

_Nathan Wesninski, sentenced May 2010…_

_...convicted of a string of brutal homicides..._

_...nine years of appeals rebuffed…_

And finally, _executed by lethal injection._

Nathaniel's eyes blurred. They stung with the hint of wind, freezing in the icy night air. Blinking rapidly, Nathaniel managed a convulsive swallow before scrolling rapidly to the top of the article and re-reading it. A third re-read and he flicked from the link and opened another page, checked another, had to know if yet another said the same thing.

The story was identically quoted with variable flourish.

_Dead._

_Executed. He's dead._

_After years, and years, and years… he's finally dead._

Nathaniel's heartbeat thumped with stuttering speed, drowning out the hum of traffic passing by him even at such an hour, the murmur of voices as similarly shrouded figures strode past him. It was too cold, too dark, to be wandering the streets of Berlin at nearly half past nine, but Nathaniel was far from alone in his trek. Even on Christmas Eve the streets were cluttered with passers-by.

Nathaniel couldn't have said what drew him from the simple apartment he'd been renting for the better part of the year, except that he'd had an itch. A familiar itch that demanded he leave the confines of four walls and stretch the urge from his twitching legs. He didn't believe in fate, didn't believe in sixth senses or psychic abilities, but coincidence had never aligned so perfectly as to have him alert, wandering the streets, and scrolling through the tabloids at the perfect hour.

Scrubbing at the burning of his eyes, he released a gasp that almost came out as a laugh. A true laugh. How long had it been since he'd properly laughed? Since he'd uttered more than feigned amusement? Nathaniel wasn't sure if he ever had.

"He's dead," he whispered, all but deaf to his own words by the hat pulled low over his ears. "He's finally gone."

_I'm free._

Freedom had never been a possibility. Not when Nathaniel and his mother had fled from Baltimore two decades before. Not when he'd escaped the clutches of his father's men time and time again. Not even when he'd woken in hospital wrapped in too many bandages and pinned by the fierce eyes of merciless FBI agents, when he'd taken the offer of ratting his father out for the release they'd paid in turn. Even returning to Europe, far from his father's reach once more, he hadn't been _free_. There was always the threat of something just around the corner, because it had happened before and it happened again. Far away wasn't far enough.

But Nathan Wesninski was arrested. Nathan Wesninski was tried, he was judged, and he was convicted. And, after years on death row and with a string of appeals behind him that had stabbed Nathaniel with phantom wounds each time he learned of them from half a world away, he was finally, finally gone.

Another laugh slipped out. Another real laugh. Bowing his head over his phone, Nathaniel fought the urge to dance with sheer delight because _this_ was real. _This_ had happened. It was finally, finally the end.

 _Don't get complacent_ , a voice hissed in the back of his head.

"Why?" Nathaniel whispered aloud. "Why not? They're no longer here. _He's_ no longer here."

 _The rest of them… they will still come for you_.

"But they haven't." Nathaniel hid his smile behind his phone. "Not for years. They haven't."

_But…_

"But nothing." Another bubble of mirth burst from his lips. He didn't care if it was slightly hysterical. "It's finished. It's done. It's too good to be true but..."

A hand touched his shoulder. With a gasp, Nathaniel spun, lurched a step backwards, and all but windmilled as he slipped on the curb. A couple, a man and a woman no older than himself jerked a step back in tandem. The man snatched back his reaching hand and raised it in placation instead.

"Sorry," he said in the thick German of a local. "I didn't mean to startle you."

Heart in his throat, Nathaniel took a moment to close his eyes, to gather himself. It was poor timing. Just poor timing.

"Are you okay?" the man asked, and as Nathaniel caught himself, opening his eyes again, he saw him pat the woman's arm where it was hooked in his elbow. A casual pat, wordless communication passing between them as the man frowned at Nathaniel. Not with violence, or anger, or suspicion, Nathaniel realised. It was with concern.

Not a threat. He wasn't a threat. Three years without an incident and Nathaniel should have expected that, but…

He rubbed absently at his shoulder, at the place the man had touched that prickled slightly with the weight of contact. "I'm fine," he replied.

"Are you sure?" The couple exchanged another glance as the woman continued. "You were standing there for a while, so we were just worried that-"

"I said I'm fine," Nathaniel cut in. The woman stopped short, and Nathaniel did his best to soften his curtness with a smile. Neither the smile nor the softening were anything he'd been very good at. "Thanks, but really, I'm fine. I'm-I'm great, actually."

Which he was. Despite the thundering of his heartbeat that slowed only hesitantly, Nathaniel was better than he'd been in years. The weight on his shoulders wasn't gone, the shadow of his father hadn't disappeared, but there was the prospect of it. There was the possibility.

When Nathaniel tried to smile again, it came a little more easily.

"Thanks," he said. Then, without another glance at the couple, he tucked his chin, turned on his heel, and strode away from the couple and their frowns.

The sidewalk was still all but frozen, still just this side of slippery, but somehow it felt like a red carpet beneath Nathaniel's feet. The traffic still hummed in what abruptly felt like an almost jovial tune.

Nathaniel had never been one for the festive season. But as he walked, the glow of multihued Christmas lights beaming upon him from the stores lining the road, he thought he could almost get into the spirit.

He was running before he realised it. Phone clutched to his chest like the gift of living that it was, energy thrumming through his limbs with a suddenly violent enthusiasm, he ran. He didn't know where he was running to but for once it didn't even matter, just as it didn't matter that the foot-traffic yelped as they dodged out of his way, or that his feet skidded as much as they gripped on the damp concrete.

Nathaniel-no, _Neil_ was free. For the first time in his life he felt truly alive.

* * *

" _He's gone. I just thought you should know._ "

Andrew didn't speak.

" _He went in his sleep. The nurse said it was painless. Jenny, you know her? I don't know if you ever visited when she was on shift. She always made sure he was properly looked after."_

Jenny. A nurse he'd never met because he'd never stopped by the hospital. A nurse who 'made sure' her patients never felt pain by regularly topping up their morphine.

" _I just… I know it's been coming for a long time, but it still seems so surreal, you know?"_

Andrew did know. He knew just how that felt because 'surreal' was about the only thing he felt on the matter these days. When it came to Drake Spears, any other feelings had been long ago cauterised into submission.

Surreal. Yes. As surreal as it had been when the diagnosis had first been made. Not that Andrew had been there to hear it. Cass hadn't told him for months.

" _Andrew, I…_ " Her voice caught. " _I know it's been a long time, but I'd really love to see you. You said that you and Drake would never be brothers but… for tomorrow maybe, if you don't have too many plans, I'd really love to-"_

"I'm at Nicky's," Andrew said shortly. It was all he could say. All he could manage. The tightness in his throat clamped on the last word.

" _Oh."_ Her sigh was almost a sob, and it brushed across Andrew's ear with a shadow of the pain it would have once caused. " _That's a bit of a shame. Berlin, isn't it? You're so far away so I suppose that means…"_

He'd miss her for Christmas. Again. And he'd miss the funeral. For the first time, that one, but not many people got more than one funeral and Andrew was more than willing to miss the opportunity. Not that joining his cousin and his cousin's partner for Christmas was a thrilling alternative; Andrew had never been a festive person. It was simply infinitely preferable to seeing his once-mother and once-brother for a final time.

Brother. As if the word had truly meant anything more than a feeble hope passing from Cass' lips.

Andrew wouldn't go to the funeral and he wouldn't miss that he wasn't there either. Even so, there was a vague twinge of regret that he wouldn't behold the final wan, emaciated face of the last in a long line of people Andrew had been too feeble to push away. It would have been comfortably satisfying to see the burnt remains stuffed into a little pot too, as unremarkably negligible as the man had become in life. Cass had mentioned long ago that she's rather a cremation than a burial and Andrew couldn't agree more.

" _Andrew?"_

She asked as though she expected an answer. As though she wanted him to speak, to console, to say something on the matter of her dead son. Andrew folded his lips. How dare she. How dare she expect so much when, despite her ignorance-or perhaps because of it-he'd been forced to break just a little more. Once, Andrew had been willing to give up anything for his would-be mother.

He was younger then. Andrew wasn't a child anymore. He was no longer a fool.

" _Andrew, I was thinking that maybe we could talk again. Or… or maybe even have a video chat-"_

"I'm sorry for your loss, Cass," Andrew said, because he was sorry. For her. In spite of it all, she didn't deserve her son and she didn't deserve to watch his death.

" _I… thank you, Andrew. Maybe…"_ She paused, the silence of regret hanging between them, before adding, " _I hope you have a lovely Christmas."_

"You too," Andrew managed, because he did. He could. Because he wasn't a child anymore, and pettiness was the language of children. It was sometimes easier, cleaner, to wash aside the spitting undertones and coveted glares.

He hung up first.

"Who was that?"

Glancing up, Andrew met his cousin's gaze where he was still sitting at the table over the remains of their late dinner. Nicky's smile was small, questioning, but not demanding. He knew better than to demand. At his back, his husband Erik paused in where he was scrubbing in the sink and glanced over his shoulder. Even Aaron, as placidly disinterested in Andrew as he'd been for years, watched him over the remains of their dinner, the dregs of wine stagnant in the glass he held aloft.

Andrew considered not replying. He wouldn't have, once. But he didn't speak a child's language anymore. He didn't have to. "No one important," he said, because it was true.

Nicky's lips twisted slightly but he only shrugged. "Okay. Well, if you're done, we can finish up with the dishes before dessert.

"I'm practically finished anyway," Erik said, dumping a pan into the sink. "I think the pie's nearly done though, so-"

"Yeah, I'll grab it."

"It smells so good. I think it's the caramel."

"Always a staple. Aaron, if you're done could you-Andrew? Where are you going?"

Andrew didn't glance over his shoulder as he strode down the hallway. "I'm going for a walk," he said.

"You're-what? Hey, Andrew! It's nearly ten already."

"If you're skiving off from the dishes then you're on duty tomorrow," Aaron called after him.

Andrew ignored him. He was captured in the surreal as he shrugged into his coat, unconsciously slipping a hand into his pocket to check for his keys. There was only a vague sensation that gripped him, that clogged his throat, yet it was enough to nudge the entire world just slightly off balance. Enough that the simplicity of his family's Christmas Eve dinner, if that was what it could be considered, sat slightly askew. The echoes of a shadowed past left a grimy stain on the aura of a family's practised and long-honed attempts at brightness and warmth. They didn't see it, didn't notice the smudges, but that didn't matter. Andrew saw. Andrew knew.

He was through the door before Aaron's grumbles had reached their inevitable resignation. Hunching his shoulders, he descended steps of his cousin's comfortable estate, hitting the curb at a clipped pace. His breath came out in a puff of white, swept behind him by his speed, and he bowed his head to the shrouded street around him.

There was no destination. No goal to be journeyed towards. Andrew simply had to leave, had to remove himself to listen again and again to the ring of Cass' words in his ear, to the knowledge that Drake-not a brother, never a brother, even if Cass always claimed he was-was gone.

Andrew had never had one of his demons die before. It was… surreal.

That feeling mounted with every step. Every increasingly rapid step, speeding until he was striding just short of breaking into a run. His breath came easily, his heartbeat steady, but it mounted, and mounted, and Andrew almost scoffed at the tinge of something cold and neglected that was peeled away from within him. As though the thick overhanging canopy, forever shrouding him in darkness that he'd grown more than accustomed to, had finally been cut back to reveal a span of the glittering night sky overhead.

Andrew had never been partial to gazing upon the stars but he could admit in his own head that stars of this kind were oddly beautiful.

Traffic picked up alongside him as he walked. The intermittent passer-by became a regular string of them. Andrew hunched his shoulders further, kept his gaze downcast, ploughing through the merry-makers without a speck of notice and bathed in the blossoming _something_ within him.

Andrew didn't feel happy. He was never truly happy, he didn't think, not like Nicky could be. Not like Aaron was sometimes.

He wasn't mournful-how could he be?-and he wasn't regretful, even for Cass' sake. That ship had sailed. No, it wasn't that, and the longer Andrew walked, the longer he allowed the foreign warmth to spread under his skin, a sharp contrast to the chilling night air, the faster it evolved into something intelligible.

Satisfaction. Definitely. Perhaps a little relief too, but it was minimal at best. Satisfaction pervaded, the thick, cloying tang of justice sitting like the residue of sharp whiskey in the back of Andrew's throat.

He crossed a road. He hopped up a curb. He wove past, around, through laughing and chatting and murmuring locals and tourists alike and he barely saw them. He gazed upon those oddly beautiful stars and it was only the last string of self-awareness that had him refrain from closing his eyes, from losing his attention entirely to-

A body collided into him.

Andrew staggered. He skidded back a step, nearly stumbling to his knees. Rebounding back to awareness, to the colour of Christmas light-laden shopfronts, the clutter of slowing pedestrians alongside him, Andrew shoved the overwhelming warmth aside as the distraction that it was.

He glared at his offending assailant, hand already at his sleeve and ready to reach into the hidden recesses beneath his armbands. "What the fuck?"

The body was on the ground. Legs splayed at an angle and propped up on his elbows, the man had evidently been far more unbalanced by their collision. He was blinking rapidly with the kind of dazed gaze of someone rudely torn from their thoughts. Andrew knew exactly what that felt like.

"Oh," the man said, shaking his head to look up at Andrew. "I didn't see you."

English. The man spoke English, whether in response to Andrew or instinctively. Andrew grunted his acknowledgement and planted his feet, folding his arms and withholding any hint of an offer for assistance. "Perhaps you could stand to be something less than a bull charging down a moderately packed sidewalk," Andrew said.

The man sat up a little further. He wiped his hands on his jeans before adjusting his skewed beanie. A lock of dark hair popped free. "Perhaps," he said. "I notice you didn't get out of my way, though."

"You were running," Andrew said, coaxing forth the remnants of detached awareness from where they'd been all but discarded. "That doesn't give anyone the opportunity to avoid you. You should be more aware of your goddamn surroundings."

The man raised an eyebrow, eyeing Andrew pointedly. His gaze said _bullshit_ more profusely than any words could have and Andrew…

He swept the man a quick once-over. It was a force of habit, one learned before Andrew had even the presence of mind to know what he was doing. Unremarkably sized, likely barely taller than Andrew himself, and dressed in a wash of greys that combined into something entirely forgettable. With the exception of his face, Andrew wouldn't have spared him a moment of thought beyond an assessment of his potential threat.

He met the man's gaze, staring flatly back at him. He held not even the slightest urge to bend to the accusation, even when a slight smirk grew on the man's face in a way that did nothing but draw attention to his lips. Andrew scowled. He wasn't some horny teenager to be distracted by a pretty face, and he didn't need to prove it to anyone.

The man climbed swiftly to his feet, wiping at his arse with the same proficiency he'd wiped his hands. "Thank you for your educational advice," he said, casting a glance at the scattering of people around them that had already drifted away from their curious watching of the scene. "I'll be sure to take it on board."

"If you get that far," Andrew said. "More likely you'll get distracted and miss an oncoming bus."

The man's eyebrow arched further. "The concern of a stranger is truly touching."

Andrew snorted. He wasn't concerned for anything but the prospect of getting bowled over in public by some fool running a sprint down the sidewalk at ten o'clock at night. "I'm not concerned. I'm educating an imbecile."

The man snorted in turn. "Your consideration is misplaced. I'm not exactly one to distract easily."

Then he did something… odd.

Andrew wouldn't have been able to pick it if he hadn't just resurfaced from the whiplash of Cass' phone call. It was surreal, though, to watch it unfold from the outside. To watch as the man glanced sidelong slightly, his gaze seeing but not really _seeing_ the dark car that cruised by them. His eyes were faintly glazed, reflecting the headlights, and the smirk disappeared to be replaced by a smile. An actual smile. A small, fragile thing, it looked almost painful on his face, tugging at the faint lines of a scar on his cheek. It was… oddly familiar. Oddly beautiful.

"What is it?"

Andrew didn't know why he asked. Maybe he really was as distracted as he was accusing the man before him of being. Maybe it was the phone call-it was probably the phone call-or the gradually rising tide of satisfaction that still lapped within him, just on the fringes of awareness. That _feeling_ that was so foreign he could only reach out to the reflection of it in the man before him.

The man slowly turned back towards him. His glazed gaze retreated but the odd little smile stayed. "What?"

"That," Andrew said, unfolding one arm long enough to flick indicatively at him. "There's something on your face."

The man blinked rapidly. He had long eyelashes, and Andrew didn't care that he noticed. A hand reached to his lips and he seemed almost startled by the smile he found there. "Oh." He blinked again, dropped the smile, then caved to its insistence once more. It was wider this time but still awkward, like a newborn foal struggling to stand. "I'm happy, I guess?"

"Are you asking me a question?" Andrew asked. Was it happy? Was it somehow 'happy' that Andrew felt?

The man shrugged a shoulder. "Maybe. I…" He paused, bit the inside of his lip, then all but blurted out, "My father just died."

Andrew frowned. "Why are you telling me that?"

"I don't know," the man said. His brow furrowed, replacing his smile. "I just have to tell someone. I've never told anyone about him before. Until now."

 _Until now_ , Andrew echoed silently. _Now_ felt like something to Andrew, outside of and beyond the stranger before him. It was likely the only reason he said, "Oh. My foster-brother just died."

The man blinked. He cocked his head slightly. "Oh."

Andrew shook his head. What was he doing? He rarely spoke by choice and never to strangers. It was _surreal_. "I don't know why I told you that," he said, and he didn't know why he spoke then, either.

"You and me both," the man said with a slight frown before adding, "my father was just executed."

It was Andrew's turn to frown. "Finally?" he guessed.

"Finally."

"Congratulations."

The man's lips twitched with another smirk. "It wasn't exactly my doing, but thank you."

"My brother died in a hospital on the other side of the world," Andrew said.

"A long time coming?"

"Too long."

"Congratulations to you too, then." The man bit the inside of his lip again. "Are you sad?"

Andrew stared at him blankly. The man didn't care, clearly didn't care any more than Andrew cared about his executed father, but he'd asked and Andrew replied. "No. Not in the least. He wasn't truly my brother."

It was the first time he'd said it aloud. He wish he'd spat it in Drake's face.

"Mine wasn't much of a father either," the man said. Whether intentionally or subconsciously he swiped a hand across the scar on his cheek, one of a number of them that were barely visible in the darkness but Andrew had noticed nonetheless. "I wish I'd told him that, though I doubt he'd have cared."

If Andrew knew how, he would have laughed. Maybe. He wasn't the sort of person to laugh, and certainly not in the company of strangers. He'd laughed his fill for a lifetime when high on medication that made it impossible to stop. He wasn't going to start now.

It was ironic, though. A coincidence of words and thoughts aligning, just as the phone call, the _satisfaction_ and _surreal_ , had aligned so perfectly with Christmas Eve. Andrew had never cared for Christmas and wasn't going to start now, but he could appreciate the perfection of that particular occurrence.

He blamed that for why he spoke as he did. "I need a drink," he said shortly.

The stranger before him took a moment before he picked up the offering Andrew extended. "A drink would be good." Then he smirked again. "The first I've had in a long time, actually."

"Not the type to drown in your sorrows?" Andrew said, already turning back the way he'd come. There was a scattering of pubs that would still open to the public that evening, one barely a corner away, and Andrew would rather lead the way than follow any of the man's suggestions.

"Not the type," the man confirmed, following him a step behind. "I'm too attentive to my surroundings."

"You're a fucking liar is what you are," Andrew said.

"Why? Because I ran into you?"

"Because you ran into me."

"What does that make you, then, if you didn't get out of my way?"

Andrew shot him a hooded glance over his shoulder. Over and slightly up; the man was only a few inches on him and some childhood peeve was irked by that. "Distracted," he said, short and clipped.

The man scoffed. Or maybe he laughed. If it was a laugh, it was as unpracticed as any that Andrew could manage. He couldn't help but eye the man sidelong as he picked up his pace slightly to fall into step alongside him.

A coincidence. A pure coincidence of a string of coincidences. Andrew was sure that was the only reason he ran into a stranger, spoke to a stranger, all but offered to have drinks with a stranger but…

It was a strange night. Why not make it a little stranger?


	2. Chapter 2

"Name?"

"Hm."

"That's not a question that takes so much thought for most."

"I'm not most."

"I had deduced that."

It was enough to almost draw forth a laugh, though mostly for the blandness of the man's accompanying expression. "Neil," Neil said.

The man across from him tipped his head slightly. His eyes, heavy lidded, didn't blink as he studied Neil across the breadth of their round table. "Is that real?"

This time Neil did smile. It felt tight and unfamiliar on his face but it was easier than the first time had been. "It's as real as any. It's my first."

"The first you were given or the first you took?"

 _Well, wasn't that interesting?_ Neil wondered how many others would jump to that conclusion so quickly. "The first I gave myself."

The man considered that. There was nothing in his expression that gave away his thoughts, nothing to indicate he was chewing over and unwrapping the parcel Neil had tossed his way. But he didn't drink from the flagon set before him and he didn't immediately continue.

Neil turned to the rest of the room, scanning the sea of bodies as he had a handful of times that night already. The first time when they'd paused outside the bar, squinting through the misted window. Then again when they'd entered, again when they'd taken their seats-Neil was reassured only when the man accompanying him placed them in the very corner of the room between two adjacent walls-and then when that same man went to get drinks.

"What do you take?"

Neil, caught in his assessment of the room, had taken a moment to catch up. "What?"

How someone could roll their eyes so effectively without actually rolling their eyes, Neil didn't know. "To drink," the man had confirmed.

"Oh." What did he drink? Neil hadn't taken anything but a shot or two of vodka when the pain of a knife or bullet wound grew too profound to smother with sheer will alone. What did people usually drink? "Whatever's on tap?"

"Are you asking me or telling me?"

Neil hadn't deigned to provide him an answer, and the man hadn't waited for one.

Now, reassessing the room once more, Neil took a more deliberate headcount, eyeing the number, the stature, the placement of bodies clustered around tables packed tightly against one another with easy familiarity. The red and white hats, the gaudy seaters, the glitter of earring that looked more like Christmas decorations than jewellery. An irish pub, it was dressed in rich, polished woods, artful brick walls with simple hangings, and neat, red-bottomed bar stools, the simplicity broken only by strings of flashing lights. There were three easy exits that Neil could see, which was a convenience in itself, but it was otherwise unremarkable.

It took Neil a full rotation in his seat before he caught himself. Again. He didn't need to look. He didn't need to do that anymore. He likely hadn't needed to for a long time.

 _My father is dead_ , he reminded himself and, _no one has come even close for years._ It should have been reassuring, should have enabled him to settle into his seat with the greatest ease he'd had his whole life, but it didn't. What it did somehow enable was agreeing to share his rawest, most vulnerable moment with an absolute stranger before agreeing to a drink with him.

Turning his attention back to the man across the table from him, Neil studied him instead of the room. That at least was more reasonable than watching for a threat that hadn't been posed for years. That perhaps, maybe, _possibly_ , would never present itself again.

It took a firm hand against the quivering beast of Neil's age-long cautiousness not to immediately deem the man a threat that needed removal-because he was. Physically a handful of inches shorter than Neil, which was impressive in itself, he carried himself like a man twice his height and with the assurance that he would walk away with the upper hand from any confrontation. Coupled with the fact that Neil had all but rebounded off of him when they'd collided, that the man had somehow managed to retain his footing despite his evident distraction while Neil was thrown to the ground, said something of perpetual readiness.

Neil didn't believe that he hadn't been distracted too. He was the only one Neil had crashed into.

"Your name?" he asked into the silence between them, a silence all but drowned out by the clamour of party-goers around them.

The man's jaw twitched and he took a sip from his flagon.

"Wow. Must be hard for you to answer a question so infinitely complex-"

"You're a fine one to talk," the man said.

"I have a reason," Neil replied, sipping his own drink.

"And that reason is?"

Neil raised an eyebrow. "Your name?"

The man huffed. "Andrew," he said.

"What, no surname?"

"I notice you didn't provide me yours."

Neil smiled. It wasn't the same sort that had pinched him with hysterical disbelief less than an hour before so it came more deliberately. Years of working with customers when finances had forced his hand had developed the largely unnecessary skill. "Would you believe me if I told you?"

"Would it be the truth?" Andrew asked, finger tapping on the edge of his flagon.

Neil chewed his lip. The truth. He hadn't told anyone the truth for a long time, if ever-until that night. Until the night the world had turned on its head and Neil was _freed_. Planting an elbow on the table, his chin in his palm, he resisted the compulsive urge to scan the room once more. How long had it been since he'd even set foot in a pub?

"I'll make a deal with you," he said.

"Truth for a truth?" Andrew asked, though it sounded more like a statement of fact than a question.

Neil tipped his head, regarding Andrew with a narrowed gaze. "You've done this before."

Andrew somehow managed to raise his eyebrows without actually raising his eyebrows. He was apparently remarkably good at non-expressions. "No, actually," he said. "I just know my preferences."

"Hm." Neil considered. He was far from disagreeing with the man before him. At the mercy of whatever foolish euphoria had grasped him, the urge to speak, to tell _someone_ what had happened, to announce all all of it, trembled on the tip of his tongue. His mother would be tossing in her grave, and the Nathaniel Wesninski of only a day before would be cursing him for a fool-

But tonight was different. Tonight had changed. The warmth that settled beneath Neil's skin had nothing to do with the cosiness of the pub.

"Alright," Neil said. "With the caveat that some truths are off limits."

"Naturally," Andrew said. "I have boundaries."

"Don't we all?"

"Some more than most."

"We have that in common then."

Silence hung between them for another moment, and Neil studied Andrew, his non-expression that managed to express so much, the twitch of his fingers around his drink. He knew Andrew studied him just as closely, despite the almost bored stare he fixed him with. Andrew didn't blink once.

"I'll go first," Neil finally said.

"Of course you will," Andrew said. "You're always first in our confrontations."

"I haven't known you long enough to have an 'always' with you."

"You ran into me first."

"You didn't get out of my way."

"Maybe if you hadn't been-" Andrew cut himself off with the slightest of frowns. "Are we really doing this again?"

Neil shrugged. "Are you really going to keep denying reality?"

"You're clearly wrong."

"We can agree to disagree."

"I object to that. You're wrong."

"Now, why doesn't that surprise me?" Neil said. Then, with a smirk, "You're _always_ so resistant."

Andrew opened his mouth, paused, then shook his head. "Ask your question, Neil."

Neil almost crowed his satisfaction, for it somehow felt like a victory. Taking a sip from his glass-beer, and largely bitter and distasteful-he contemplated, chewing over his options. A flip-flop of excitement danced in his belly, and he couldn't place the cause of it but for the jarring discordance his night had evolved into.

This was new.

This was different.

This was… _freeing_. And Andrew, the stranger across from him who, against all odds, had shared _something_ with him, some incredible, impossible _thing_.

It didn't change much. Not really. But if it was the start of a new journey, the beginning of a new road, Neil found he was far from reluctant to take his first step with Andrew's kindred spirit in tow.

* * *

**December 24, 22:26**

It started off simply.

"What's your full name?" Neil asked.

"That's really what you're leading with?"

"I want to confirm something."

"Andrew Minyard."

"I knew it. I knew you looked familiar."

"No, you fucking don't-"

"Exy, right? You were in the US Olympic team three years ago."

The non-expression on Andrew's face cracked and if he'd known how to do it easily, Neil might have laughed.

"You're not a fanatic, are you?" Andrew said. "I was under the impression exy wasn't quite as adored by the Europeans as-"

"I'm not German."

"Of course you're not. Of fucking course."

* * *

**December 24, 22:49**

It progressed like this.

"Um…"

"Don't answer if it's not going to be true. I've kept up my side so far."

"It's not reluctance or subterfuge that's hard to work around."

"No? Force of habit, maybe? Would you consider yourself a pathological liar?"

"Is that a second question? Do I get two now?"

The way Neil bit the inside of his lip was distracting, so Andrew promptly ignored it.

"You haven't even answered the first one."

"Okay, well, I'll give you a free pass, because I'm so generous."

Andrew snorted. "Your generosity is oozing."

Neil's smile was a crooked thing. A smirk more than a smile. "Baltimore," he said.

"Maryland?"

"The one and only. And no, not exactly."

"No what?"

"I wouldn't say I lie pathologically. It's entirely by calculated choice."

"You're attempting to make yourself appear intelligent and devious. It's not working."

"Why? I'm not managing to charm you?"

"Not in the least." Andrew wouldn't admit that he spoke only a half truth himself that time. Whatever had gripped him, whatever coaxed truths from his tongue more rapidly than he'd ever deemed rational or self-preserving, managed to miss that one at least.

Maybe it was the pub. Maybe it was the warmth within the room that contrasted so starkly to outside. Maybe it was Drake, what was finally his death, and the plateauing conclusion it finally drawn to.

Or maybe it was the man across from him, a vibrant study, a curiosity.

Whatever it was, Andrew spoke more than he had in his entire life. And it was… _freeing._

* * *

**December 24, 11:29**

"Why would you ask something so banal?"

"Why not? I think it says a lot about a person."

"How old are you, exactly, to care about something like school subjects?"

"Is that another question? Because we're still on mine."

Andrew sighed and Neil couldn't help but grin. It came almost easily, a foreign mask but _easily_ and somehow not a mask at all _._ "English."

"Really? I almost don't believe you."

"Why would I choose to lie about that, of all things?"

"To preserve your dignity? I don't know. I just can't picture you in a library."

The disgust that painted Andrew's face was the most visceral expression he'd worn all night. "Fuck no. I can't stand libraries."

"That makes absolutely no sense if you enjoy English-"

"What about you?"

"Maths. Obviously."

"Of course. Obviously. And that's disgusting."

"Maths?"

"That you like maths. Your net worth has immediately plummeted."

"I'm surprised I even had a net worth to you. Strangers, right?'

"Yes. Still. Though less so given I've learnt of your most abhorrent characteristic."

"Abhorrent? You really are an English student."

"Don't mock me. You're simply a fool who's never read a dictionary before."

"Now that's just an underestimation of my-wait. You've read an entire dictionary?"

Andrew raised his gaze to the ceiling, and Neil couldn't help but hear the long-suffering sigh through the hubbub of the bar. But he didn't leave, and neither did Neil.

* * *

**December 25, 00:05**

"When did you first kill someone?"

Andrew had the satisfaction of seeing Neil choke on a mouthful of beer. He spluttered slightly, coughed, then shot Andrew a wide-eyed stare. Andrew took the question as a point to him.

"That's a hefty assumption to make."

"Am I wrong?"

"Um…"

"Don't lie. If you're not going to answer truthfully then just don't answer."

"Calm down, I'm just thinking."

"Don't hurt yourself."

"You're hilarious. I just can't remember specifics but… thirteen?"

"Thirteen."

"I'm fairly sure. I can't be one hundred percent sure he actually died, but I think so."

"You were... " Andrew retracted his point. He wasn't entirely surprised, had expected the answer before he'd asked the question, but- "Accidental?"

"Oh no, it was very deliberate. He'd just shot my mom."

"He killed her?"

"No. She didn't die that time."

There was a story there, and in spite of himself Andrew wanted to know. He wanted to pry loose the secrets of a stranger that was becoming less of a stranger, a stranger with a pretty face and a stupid fucking smirk, whose story paralleled Andrew's in an oddly contrasting yet echoing hue. With each word, each truth, Andrew felt himself lightened, his chest increasingly loosened since Cass had first uttered her fateful words, and it was an unhinging yet somehow comfortable bout of disorientation that followed in its wake.

Neil's story and his similar unbalance was oddly grounding. Except when it threw Andrew for a loop.

"What about you then? Speaking of mother's, is yours dead too? You didn't happen to kill her yourself or something, did you?"

A goddamn fucking loop.

* * *

**December 25, 00:48**

"I don't want to talk about exy."

"Then don't answer the question. You don't have to talk about anything if you don't want to."

"Why are you so obsessed?"

"I'm not obsessed. Anymore."

"I'm sensing a 'were' buried in plain sight."

"That's very perceptive of you. Whatever. It was an obsession that arose from disappointment. I grew out of it. Sort of."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you grow out of it?"

Neil tapped the edge of his empty glass on his teeth. The beer hadn't been particularly appetising, but a comfortable fullness settled in his belly and he felt eased by the pervasiveness of the alcohol swimming through him. It was just a little but after so long of nothing…

It made it easier to talk. Easier to admit the truths. A little harder to recall the specifics as he would have liked but he would take the cons with the pros. It was strange how speaking more had abruptly become the goal of the conversation.

"Why did I grow out of it," Neil murmured. Exy had been a dream, once. But then… "When my mom died."

"Yes," Andrew said, perfectly pitiless. "Because that makes sense."

"Alright, asshole, let me explain."

"By all means."

"I didn't have the time. Or the energy. Or the capacity when hopping between towns every other month."

"No down time for a passing obsession?"

"Not anymore." It had been painful, a loss entirely different to that of his mother, but Neil vividly remembered the day he'd decided he could no longer dwell upon the impossible. That very day, bearing the weight of new stitches and the knowledge of how close he'd come to following in his mother's footsteps, he'd burned the ledger of exy material he'd carried for years.

"Heartbreaking. A true tragedy."

Somehow, Andrew's words were amusing rather than infuriating. "What about you then?"

"What about me?"

"What's the basis of your obsession?"

"I'm not obsessed."

"You're an Olympic player, so I'd say-"

"Kevin dragged me into it. Unwillingly."

"Kevin Day?"

"The one and only."

"Is he as much of a dick in person as he doesn't appear before the camera?"

Andrew scoffed. "You have no idea."

* * *

**December 25, 01:12**

"I have a brother. A cousin. A foster mother who wouldn't take no for an answer."

"I have an uncle. And a dead father."

"Said it enough times already?"

"It still doesn't seem real."

"He was dangerous?"

"Very. To me. And others."

"Then it's good he's dead."

Neil's smile was different this time. Smaller. Fiercer. "Your foster brother?" he asked.

Andrew swallowed a scowl, glancing down at the pockmarked table. "Not dangerous. An unfortunate blip."

"Unfortunate how?"

"It's not worth discussing."

"Oh. Well, it's likely good he's dead."

Andrew stared at Neil over the rim of his refilled flagon. Neil, with his eyes downcast, nodding at his own words with utter conviction. Andrew didn't understand it, didn't know what possessed Neil to agree to Andrew's unspoken words so immediately, but he didn't understand a lot that night.

Like why he spoke at all.

Like why he hadn't left yet.

Like why he couldn't look away from the man sitting across from him, though that was admittedly a deliberate misunderstanding on his own part. He didn't want to think about that. Yet.

"Some people," Neil said slowly, paused, then nodded again to himself. "The world is better without them. Sometimes they don't deserve to be forgiven, even if they had the sense to ask for it."

Drake hadn't asked. Andrew didn't know Neil's father but he doubted he'd asked either.

"True," he said. Then he took a long draw from his flagon. It didn't quite wash the distaste from his tongue, but it did a good job of masking it.

* * *

**December 25, 01: 41**

"No," Neil said, propping his other elbow on the table. He crossed his hands before his face to hide the amusement that a handful of drinks made next to impossible to suppress. "Try again."

"There's no other logical option."

"I'm sure you'll get there."

"English. German. French. Spanish. Swedish. Italian or Greek would be the natural sixth option."

"Maybe, but it's not."

"Polish."

"No."

"Finnish."

"Finnish? Fuck no. Have you ever tried to learn Finnish?"

"Why would I try to learn Finnish?"

"Exactly."

"Then…"

Andrew rocked back in his seat slightly, a faint furrow on his brow. Neil was content to watch him, the itching between his shoulder blades and the urge to look over his shoulder having subsided slightly throughout the night with the whittling number of the bar's attendees. His head swum slightly, and not only with the amount of alcohol he'd drunk, evidenced by the empty glasses spaced before him. Sharing something-anything, but especially so much-was intoxicating.

They'd been there for hours. Neil hadn't spent so much time with a single person outside of work since his mother's death. He certainly hadn't spoken so much, never _revealed s_ o much.

It was… surreal. Freeing.

"Oh," Andrew said after a moment, furrow clearing. "Mandarin."

Neil cocked his head. "How did you reach that conclusion?"

"You said you country hopped."

"Yes. I didn't say I went to China."

"It makes the most sense. It's widely spoken-"

"It is."

"-and a runaway would make use of the most common dialects."

"A runaway? I never said I was a runaway, either."

"You didn't have to." Andrew's gaze was intense. His fingers flickered on his flagon in that way they did, that way that had captured Neil's attention countless times that night. "You've revealed enough of your past and character to draw reasonable conclusions."

"So what? You think you know me now?"

Andrew stared. He stared, and stared, and stared, only the murmurs of distant voices and the mellow mumble of music to break the silence. "Not yet," he said.

It was… _intoxicating._

* * *

**December 25, 02:00**

The numbers on his phone said it gave evidence of the lateness of the hour, but Andrew barely believed it. It wasn't possible he'd lost four hours. It also wasn't possible that he would have, _could_ have, lost more time still had the bar not quietly requested their departure for the evening.

"You're alone," Andrew had said, the last of a long, long string of questions. Except this wasn't a question. Not really. More a confirmation.

"Yes," Neil had said.

"No family, no friends-"

"What even are friends?" Neil shrugged, the motion slow and fluid, far less of a twitch than his gestures had been earlier that night. "I wouldn't consider them to be, no."

"So sad for you."

"I'm not sad."

"I can see that." A pause, and then Andrew slowly, deliberately said, "No partner?"

It would make sense that he didn't. Andrew didn't need to ask, not when Neil had revealed as much as Andrew, a word for a word, a question for a question, and Andrew had painted a vivid picture of him. Superficial, perhaps, and raw with its newness, but a picture nonetheless. But he asked.

Neil had cocked his head in that way he did. He'd arched an eyebrow as he had countless times before that evening. He'd opened his mouth to reply, and-

"I'm sorry, but we're closing up for the evening."

The bartender. The fucking bartender. Andrew shot daggers at him that were wasted as the attendant distracted himself stacking the chairs alongside them. "Merry Christmas, to the both of you," was all he said, offering a smile that was a little frayed around the edges before turning away.

Andrew inwardly cursed. He stood, prying his fingers from the skin-warmed flagon, one of many he'd nursed that evening. He wasn't tipsy, could hold his liquor and knew his limits, but the warmth tingling in his fingertips was one he hadn't felt in a long, long time.

It had been a night of many renewed experiences. Many entirely new ones, too.

They left the bar, Neil brushing Andrew's shoulder as they passed through the door side by side. On the curb, largely empty of pedestrians and only intermittently interrupted by passing night traffic, Neil paused and tipped his head back. He released a flowering plume of breath as he closed his eyes, and Andrew could only watch him hang suspended in the moment, absorbing the shadowed image of the man he'd shared more truths with than perhaps anyone else in the world in a matter of hours. The stranger.

Except not really a stranger anymore. Something other. Something more.

Andrew watched, his eyes drawing along the length of Neil's exposed throat. He watched, raking his gaze across the sharp angles of Neil's face, the curls of brown hair free of the hat he'd worn before entering the bar, the curve of his lips as he released blossoms of smoke into the night.

Andrew stared, and watched, and he curled his hands into fists in his pockets as he thought. He'd kissed strangers before. He'd fucked barely-more than strangers in dingy bathrooms. He'd explored what it meant to be drawn to a boy, behind the imposing grey walls of juvie, and he'd only explored further since.

Why did it feel so different with Neil? Was it simply the phone call, the relief, the _release_ , and every single uttered word that had followed? That for every word Andrew had uttered, every raw truth, Neil had matched him. That the night had become so otherworldly different and impossible and Neil was another glowing part of that.

Real, but somehow not. Within his range yet somehow still untouched. It made it next to impossible not to reach out.

"I want to kiss you," Andrew said quietly, his words almost lost to the night. "Yes or no?"

Neil lowered his gaze and glanced towards him. He blinked rapidly in that way he did, the way Andrew had come to learn in such a short time meant he was startled, was surprised. He didn't reply, the muted hum of the ever-living night murmuring around them, and Andrew cursed his promptness more and more with each passing second. He didn't regret his words-regret was useless, would do nothing-but had he reset the moment he would have held his tongue. He would have waited. Neil wasn't some boy, some man, some stranger to kiss and fuck because there was _more._ They were _different things_ , and Andrew, hands burying deeper into his pockets, was revising just how it _should_ have gone with startling ferocity as he-

"Yes."

Andrew blinked. He stared at Neil, barely an arm's reach away and regarding his with a slight tilt of his head. The edges of his now-familiar smirk touched his lips, and Andrew wanted to lick it off as much as he wanted to punch it. He hadn't decided which was the greater urge when Neil continued.

"But not yet," he said. With a shrug, he half turned, turned _away_ from Andrew, and a large part of Andrew did not like that at all. "Next time."

Andrew frowned. "Next time?"

Neil gave another shrug. "Sure. Next time. New Years Eve, maybe. I've heard that's a thing people do."

His smirk widening, Neil turned fully away. He spared a final glance over his shoulder with a final passing phase:

"It was… unexpected to meet you, Andrew. In a good way. We should do this again sometime."

Then he left. Striding away with long steps that bellied his slight stature, he left him. Andrew, feet glued to the concrete of the sidewalk, could only watch. There was a blink between one moment and the next, between watching the unremarkable grey of Neil's coat duck behind the only other solitary figure within sight, and he was gone.

Andrew released his breath, a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. It plumed in a merry cloud of smoke around him, dissipating rapidly into the surrounding chill. With it seemed to drain the last of the discomfort that had afflicted him, the discomfort of his own question, but more than that too. The niggling weight of Cass' words somehow eased the last of their grip, just as they'd been easing for every minute of the past hours in Neil's company.

Neil. Just Neil. A stranger and a coincidence that collided on a sidewalk. With another huff, another plume of dissipating breath, Andrew turned and strode in the opposite direction. Instead of Cass' voice it was Neil's that rung in his ears.

" _Next time."_

Not a no. Not a yes, not exactly, despite what he'd said before it, but it hadn't been a no. Andrew didn't have any expectations, and he didn't believe in chance and convenience following coincidence, but it was with a surprising flush of warmth that he made for his family's home.

 _Yes_ , he'd said. _Next time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you for reading! I hope that, wherever you are and however you celebrate, that you have a lovely festive season <3

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Thank you for reading! I hope that, whatever you're doing or what/if you celebrate you're having a lovely holiday period. I'd love to hear your thoughts and I'll update again soon <3


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